


It Will Fall Upon Us All

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M, Porn with Feelings, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2015-12-03
Packaged: 2018-05-04 18:25:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5344061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After three long years, after three years of being <i>brother</i> or <i>d'Herblay</i>, hearing Porthos say his name again is almost too much. They meet again after all this time. (post season 2)</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Will Fall Upon Us All

**Author's Note:**

> Meant to be set between seasons 2 and 3, again with that fandom assumption that Aramis doesn't join up with the guys again right away. So, likely going to turn AU-ish by the time season 3 airs. But yes.
> 
> Based off a prompt of them rediscovering each other after a long separation plus Aramis getting off to the sound of his own name since it's been so long since he's heard it. 
> 
> Aaaaaand also bottom Porthos. Cause not enough of that.
> 
>  **ETA:** LOOK AT THIS GOREGOUS [ART](http://jlsdrawings.tumblr.com/post/134468536429/but-this-for-now-is-enough-steady-breathing) THAT JL DREW.

It is like this: Porthos smiles at Aramis from across the battlefield, blood on his cheek, his hair longer, fuller – and the bottom drops out from Aramis’ stomach. It’s been three years. Three long years of war and hardship, of seeing Athos, d’Artagnan, and Porthos only in passing as he straddled line between monk and military, between man of God and man of King. 

It is like this: three years and he can’t fathom Porthos being more beautiful than he is in the moment where he turns, sees Aramis, and grins at him as if no years have passed at all. 

Or, rather, it is like this: Aramis can’t believe there could ever be a moment where he wasn’t in love with Porthos.

Aramis doesn’t dare stumble, but he moves – faster than he thought possible, to meet Porthos halfway, and with every step, Porthos is smiling more and more, lighting up his eyes. Aramis is breathless by the time he stops in front of him, hands heavy at his sides with the desire to reach out and touch, to grasp him by his cheeks and drag him in closer to kiss him.

“Your hair is longer,” Porthos says, has noticed the pony-tail. 

Aramis feels hysterical when he drags his eyes over the bush of Porthos’ beard, the soft curls on his head. “So is yours.” 

How desperately he wishes to reach out and touch him, to run his hands down his neck, across his armor, strip him down right then and there and feel him again after three years. There is a warmth in his belly with the thought of it. 

Porthos’ expression softens – he must notice the heat in Aramis’ eyes – and he says, soft and warm and thick, “Aramis.” 

And that—

That is too much.

It’s like this: three years of monkhood, of being a man of the cloth, forgetting the way his name tastes in another’s mouth. Forgetting the sound of his own _name_. 

_Brother,_ the monks called him. Or _d’Herblay_. 

“At least,” Aramis whispers, far more breathless than he intends. He blinks a few times, blames the sun in his eyes. “You still remember me.” 

He means it as a joke. It hardly sounds like one. 

“I could never forget you,” Porthos admits – and it’s so easy for him to be truthful. Aramis has always envied that. “Why would I?” 

It is like this: three years without his name and to hear it now on Porthos’ tongue – Aramis’ knees go weak, his heart hammers to a stuttering stop, and he wants nothing more than to melt into the sound of it, to press himself to Porthos, for Porthos to press his mouth to his ear and whisper it over and over again. 

Soon, perhaps. Once again. 

 

\- 

 

It’s like this, then: rediscovering each other.

Aramis hates that he hesitates, and yet he does. Lifts his hand, touches at the faded line of a scar along the edge of Porthos’ neck. Porthos leans into the touch. Tender. Gentle. His eyes are soft. 

“Sword,” Porthos clarifies and Aramis nods. His hands move down, work at unlocking the armor from his body – pulls it apart, drops it down at their feet. Touches at his chest, a long, jagged scar – hastily sewn shut, with little skill. 

Looks up at him. Meets Porthos’ eyes. 

“Well,” Porthos says, soft, “d’Artagnan’s not as good at it yet as you are.” 

A mournful sound – lost and longing. Lifts his hand. Touches his cheek.

Porthos leans into it. Porthos’ eyes linger on the hint of a scar at Aramis’ clavicle, exposed once he’d stripped from his coat earlier. 

It’s like this, then: rediscovering every little scar he wasn’t there to see, wasn’t there to sew shut again. Heart twisted up, aching. Porthos’ hands touching at his hips, holding him still, drawing him in close. Cushions his lips to his cheek, then his jaw, then to his ear. 

“Aramis,” he whispers, and Aramis doesn’t sob out, but the urge is there. He closes his eyes instead, already half-hard and almost ashamed of it, coaxed forward only by the sound of his own name. Not brother. Not d’Herblay. Porthos breathes out, “Aramis.” 

_Aramis._

Then: hands in his hair, curling up, twisting, tugging him up and they’re kissing –

He can’t be embarrassed by how urgently he kisses Porthos, once he realizes that is what he is leaning in for. He pulls Porthos down against him, chest to chest, Aramis’ hands tight at his shoulders. It is fast, firm, relief and reassurance – reiteration to what they could not say out on the open battle field. 

The urge, then, was there: to kiss, to touch, to spin him up into his arms and never let him ago.

Instead, this: kissing and kissing and kissing some more, being kissed and being kissed more and more. Relief and reassurance. Alive. Alive alive alive. 

Aramis draws back enough to press his forehead to Porthos’. Touches at the vee of his chest exposed by his shirt, the deep slide of muscle and chesthair. He smiles at him. He is breathless. Porthos’ mouth is warm and soft in his smile, hand in his hair, guides him in to kiss him again – gentler this time. Gentle, serene, tender. Remembering him. Reminding him. 

This one lingers. A low heat and a promise. Declaration. Consideration. 

Porthos tugs on his hair as he draws back, presses their foreheads together a second time. Bumps his nose to his. Aramis, misty-eyed, cannot help but laugh. 

“Porthos,” he whispers, holds his breath. 

Inch of space between them. Porthos’ smile softens, eyes lidded but gentled, bright. His hair curls over his ears. The scratch of his beard when they kiss is both familiar and unfamiliar. Aramis touches at the scar above his eye, regrets only that Porthos closes his eyes to accommodate him. Aramis doesn’t doubt there will be more scars beneath his clothes, scars that were ill-formed, touched by caring hands but not loving hands, created by cruel men who Aramis hopes rot beneath the earth for hurting Porthos. 

“… You have a few white hairs,” Porthos declares, and there is mischief in his eyes when his hand moves to curl around Aramis’ beard, tugs, drags his thumb over three small flicks of white hair Aramis is in denial about.

Like this, then: Aramis’ outraged sound drowned out by Porthos’ booming laugh. 

And Aramis can’t be truly angry – perhaps only a little petulant – when he can hear that voice, when Porthos leans in to kiss him and can barely manage it around his laughter, his smile. Always happy. Always so beautiful – like sunshine, like the warmth of a fire, like everything that is good and perfect in this world and now gathered in his arms, cherished. To be cherished by one so loved. 

“Aramis,” Porthos says, low and _perfect_ and that—

Like this: Aramis cannot fathom being more in love in this moment.

 

\- 

 

Further into the night, then, hours – food, and drink, and laughter. 

Aramis’ hands cupping Porthos’ face and kissing him again and again. Sliding his hands down over his arms, whimpering out with a quiet, “They’re bigger than before.” 

Feeling Porthos’ flex beneath his touch. Aramis, laughing into the kiss. Biting at his lip once to coax Porthos closer, so Porthos will bite his mouth open, too. Delights in the scrape of teeth across his bottom lip, tongue against the lines of his teeth. 

Kissing and kissing. 

Like this, then: Porthos’ deep, honeyed laughter – Aramis, squirming ever closer, curling his arms around Porthos’ neck to anchor himself. 

Like this: Porthos, awed. Eyes soft. Saying, “We’re together again.” 

Aramis, laughing, happy and sad at once, whispering, “ _Yes._ ” 

Porthos, eyes warm, kissing Aramis and dragging him into his lap. 

Aramis, whispering, “You’re _alive._ ” 

Porthos, hands on Aramis’ hips, answering, “ _We’re_ alive.” 

Together. Alive. Once again, that happiness. Aramis can’t breathe, but Porthos’ soothes him all the same – kisses him until he gasps for breath, anchors him until he feels human again. 

 

-

 

Or, this: 

Aramis trying to pour more for them to drink and Porthos’ hands poking at his sides until Aramis squirms away, spills wine onto his hand, squawks out in protest before being drowned out by Porthos’ loud, delighted laughter. 

Aramis turning to scowl at him without any heat. Saying, “Stop that!” 

Porthos, grinning, and then closing his eyes and shrugging – picture of innocence. “I did nothing.” 

“There is no reason to tickle me.” A protest. 

A laugh. Warm and soft and cusping against the line of his jaw in a way that leaves him breathless all over again, weak in the knees. 

“I haven’t laughed this much in years.” A truth, warm, given freely. 

Aramis’ eyes softening. “Me neither.” 

Porthos’ hands on him again, and then tickling him more. Aramis’ laughter an unbeautiful snort and gasp, squirming away. Porthos’ louder even as Aramis shoves him. 

“You haven’t put your hands on me for years and this is what you do with me now?” he protests, laughing, hating and loving that he is laughing – reaching for Porthos to pull him in closer even while shoving his hands away, guiding them down to his hips. 

“I’d never so mistreat you, Monsieur,” Porthos teases. 

“No,” Aramis gasps out, touches at the back of Porthos’ neck, kneads slowly. Arches up, strains – whimpers out until Porthos leans down to kiss him. “My name.”

“Aramis,” Porthos whispers, reverential – a prayer. 

 

-

 

Kissing and kissing and more kissing. Aramis drowns in it – never wants to let go, never wants to stop. 

“Let me take care of you,” he says, demands, begs it – needs to solidify it, needs to reassure Porthos on how much he is loved, how much he is needed, how much he has longed for him over the years. 

“Aramis,” Porthos whispers, because this time he must know how Aramis shivers. Whispers it to his ear. Presses a kiss beneath it. Hooks his hands under Aramis’ legs. Lifts him. Carries him. Easy. So easy, so gentle, so wonderful.

Like this: stripping one another, sliding their lips together. 

Like this: Aramis pushing Porthos down onto the bed, settling between his legs. Porthos, arching, spreading his legs for him, hands on his hips. Aramis, his hands on Porthos’ stomach. Feels the steady rise and fall of his breath. 

“Do you want me to?” Aramis asks, breathless – it has been so long, too long. Porthos’ cock, heavy and half-full near where Aramis’ hand rests. As beautiful and perfect as Aramis remembers. 

Everything. Everything beautiful – Porthos, always the most beautiful man that Aramis had ever known. 

Touches at the scars now – the ones he helped shape, the ones he doesn’t recognize. Years between them now. Unhurried. 

“Yeah,” Porthos whispers out. No hesitation. He adds, quiet, “Go on.” 

Aramis’ tongue darts out to wet his lips. Then he smiles. “For you, my love – anything.” 

How easy it is, to say it again after so long. To watch the way Porthos melts beneath him, then rises up to kiss him. Curls his arm around him and anchors him down. 

“Aramis,” he whispers between kisses. “Aramis, Aramis—”

And it takes all Aramis’ strength not to spend before he even manages to lay a hand on Porthos – the sound of his name on his lips intoxicating, a reminder that he is still here, that he is still a man and not merely a vessel of God. He is worthwhile. He is remembered. 

 

-

 

What, then, is better than the feeling of Porthos arching beneath him, three of Aramis’ fingers inside of him?

Like this: drunk on love, drunk on the sounds that Porthos makes. Trying to coax the sound of his name from his gasping lips and throat, the way he swallows down, the way he clenches at the sheets of his bed and arches and shifts, spreads his legs and rocks his hips down against Aramis’ hand as he works him open.

Simple simplicity. He smiles, wide and bright and unrestrained, at Porthos – delirious with it. Porthos, laughing, parroting the expression. Sweat on his brow, his hair – so much longer now – clinging to his forehead. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Aramis says, can’t help it, breathes it out. 

“It’s been a while,” Porthos says as way of explanation when his stomach twitches and shudders with pleasure, the way he twists and rocks down against Aramis’ hand. He hooks his fingers, presses up inside of him. 

“Have you—” Aramis begins, unsure if he should complete the thought. He closes his lips together. _Anyone else?_

“No,” Porthos answers for him, looks up at him. “Not really.” 

Aramis wants to do everything at once with him. Make up for those lost years. Spell it out to him in words and lips upon skin just how desperately he needs to make this up to him, just how desperately he loves him. 

Later, later. There’s time for later. There’s time. They’re alive. 

Aramis twists his hand. Slides his free hand along Porthos’ thighs, spreads him wider. He palms at Porthos’ cock, curls around it and strokes. Porthos groans out, moans, gasps out and twists up against his touch. He wants to go slow – wants to tease, like he used to. But he can’t. The movement of stroking his cock, from base to tip, is quick and merciless. Porthos’ mouth opens and he gasps out. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Porthos gasps out, and then, “ _Aramis._ ” 

Aramis shudders, too, bites at his lip and moans out, shifting his hips forward. He is hard, straining, and the sound of his name makes it twitch with longing. He reaches to Porthos, presses him down again, moves closer. 

It’s been years. 

But it’s like this: they fit together perfectly, as if no time has passed.

When Aramis slips into Porthos, it is easy and simple – they interweave as easily as their fingers do, Aramis pressing them down to the bed as he rocks his hips forward and kisses him. He presses his cock into Porthos, inch by inch, until their hips press together. He hovers. He lingers. He exhales sharply and then slides home, presses harder, presses as deep as he can manage until Porthos is bowing up to meet him with an opened-mouthed gasp of his name. 

Porthos’ hand grabs at his hip, drags him in. His name comes out as a litany – breath upon breath. 

Aramis cannot breathe. 

Like this, then: Aramis gasping out, “This feels—”

“Yes,” Porthos moaning out in response, rocking to meet him. “Fuck. Aramis.” 

Again and again. 

Like this: Aramis, Aramis, Aramis. 

Porthos, brow glistening with sweat, cheeks flushed, hair curling around his ears. 

Aramis, back of his neck damp, blushing, hair in his eyes as he ducks forward and rocks harder into Porthos, searches for purchase between grasping hands. 

“Porthos,” he whispers. “Oh, my love.” 

Porthos arches up, kisses him. 

He drops back down onto the bed. Aramis covers Porthos in kisses – from forehead, to nose, to lips, down his neck and over his chest. He adjusts the feeling of his cock inside of Porthos, rocks further slowly, trying to take his time, shuddering even from this. He’s going slower than he needs to, slower than they both want, but it’s so much and he wants it to last.

Later, later. There will be time for later. And yet—

He wants this to last. Cannot breathe. He stares at Porthos as he moves, lets Porthos touch him like he needs. 

“I thought about you,” Porthos moans out, shifts beneath him. 

“When?” Aramis gasps out, needs to hear it, needs to know he is needed, he is cherished, he is missed. Selfish, yes, always selfish, but—

“Aramis,” Porthos gasps out when Aramis shifts his angle, hits him just right. Torturous. 

“Tell me,” Aramis breathes out, kissing over Porthos’ chest – drags his tongue over the scar above his heart, the first scar he ever shaped for Porthos. Fitting, then, that it should be his heart. 

“Missed you,” Porthos affirms and Aramis shivers – pleased and upset, feeling that lingering hunger twisted in his gut – just how much he’s missed him, too, just how much he’s needed him.

And this: being connected to him like this again, after years, as if no time has passed at all. 

He touches Porthos’ jaw. Fingers fanning out. Touching at his scar. Kisses him. Slow and steady and lingering – doesn’t let him go, doesn’t stop moving. Words don’t fit in this moment. Words were never quite needed between them – they always understood. 

Like this: words unneeded but fully understood. Every time. 

Their fingers slide together, curl up, lace up. Can’t keep them apart. 

Porthos anchors himself to Aramis, starts moving. Thrusts forward to meet Aramis’ movements. Cock presses deeper. 

“You’re so beautiful like this,” Porthos manages, after a moment – always praising him, always so proud of him. Looking up at him as he’s being fucked. Looking up at him like he’s his entire world. 

Aramis plans his hand upon Porthos’ stomach, slides downwards, curls around his cock. Tugs and strokes him in time to his thrusts. Kisses around the loud moan Porthos utters in response. 

“My name,” Aramis begs, feels his eyes misting over with sheer need of being here with him. Of needing him. Of loving him this much, still loving him after all these years.

“Aramis,” Porthos whispers out, like it is the easiest thing – as sure as breathing. He repeats his name. Again and again.

Aramis. Aramis Aramis. 

And this: Aramis, coming apart because of his name, unable to handle it. He shudders. Gasps. Mouth open in small wonder. 

Aramis thrusts harder, turns his head and kisses Porthos’ shoulder. They press down together. The angle is off, awkward and shallow thrusting – but enough, what he needs, what he wants. What he’s longed for, for so long. Feeling Porthos shift and move beneath him. Feeling him heaving in shuddering, pleasing breaths. The bulk and plump of his cock against his stomach as he shifts and grinds against him. 

“Fuck!” Porthos cries out. “Aramis, fuck!” 

It’s enough. Raspy moan. Hands curling hard into his hair. Deep, sucking kiss. 

“Aramis,” Porthos gasps out against his mouth. Drag of teeth. Drag of nails on his scalp. 

Aramis comes first. It takes him by surprise, the sound of his own name praising upon Porthos’ lips – a litany, a hymn. Again and again. Unstoppable. He drowns in it. Shudders.

Not _brother._ Not _d’Herblay._

Aramis. Aramis. 

Himself again. 

And this: watching Porthos as he comes apart, comes inside of him, filling him up the way he used to. Porthos isn’t still. Drives up into Aramis’ hand, watches him unravel. Moving furiously against him – desperately how they move. 

Aramis falls apart. Porthos follows him. He’s always been there by his side. Of course, in this too. 

Like this: Aramis watches Porthos throw his head back, swallow down hard, clench his eyes shut, and moan out his name as he writhes beneath him. 

And like this: ropes of come against his stomach, Aramis pressing down to him. Stickiness. Heat and warmth and love. Everything. Porthos gathering him to him, hand in his hair, at his hip. Resting against one another. 

Home again.

 

-

 

Or, it is like this: Porthos’ fingers in his hair, carding through it. Mouth pressed to his ear. Whispering his name. 

Aramis, too tired to stir properly – but shivering all the same. 

 

-

 

It’s like this: Porthos’ chest rises and falls against Aramis’ ear, listening to the steady beat of his heart, head rested on his chest. 

They are messy and dirty and the warmth will soon fade and the need to clean up will come. 

But this, for now, is enough. Steady breathing. Sound of living – alive. Together again. Aramis smiles. He cannot contain it, cannot help it – this happiness. 

He looks up at Porthos, studies his face. Leans in. Kisses him. 

Porthos is strong. Just as steady. His hand touches a new scar. Porthos’ hand brushes the hair away from his face, collects it into a small bun at the top of his head before letting it go and letting the hair tumble back into his eyes. Aramis laughs, bright and clear – sharp as a bell. 

And this: 

“I love you,” Aramis says, voice hushed – holds his breath, even knowing the answer, even knowing that the feelings could not have disappeared all these years. The words slip out so easily, far easier than they might have years ago. Separation, then, made him bolder. Separation, then, made him weak with longing. 

“I love you,” Porthos answers, soft and real, like it is easy – just like breathing. 

And this: Aramis knowing it was not easy for Porthos to learn to love and trust again; knows that a life he’s led had made him think himself undeserving, convinced himself he cannot love. The truth, then: there can be no man on this earth who can be more loving than Porthos, who sees good in Aramis where Aramis fears there might be none to see. 

And this: Porthos is smiling at him, touching at the little white hairs in Aramis’ beard, and laughing – and Aramis knows how deeply his own love goes, a deep well that can never run dry. He is relieved to think it. Relieved to know that he cannot fade away from how Porthos shines before him like this. He does not fall out of love, never has, still loves so deeply those he’s lost – but this, this time, he has come back. 

This time: he is loved in return. 

This time: he cannot lose Porthos. The scars are proof enough. 

Aramis leans in to kiss him – Porthos meets him halfway. 

It’s like this: happiness. 

“I love you,” he says again, and feels lighter for doing so. 

“Aramis,” Porthos whispers and Aramis feels his breath catch against his teeth as he drags Porthos closer to kiss him.

**Author's Note:**

> NOW GO LOOK AT THIS GOREGOUS [ART](http://jlsdrawings.tumblr.com/post/134468536429/but-this-for-now-is-enough-steady-breathing) THAT JL DREW. 
> 
> I can be found on my [tumblr](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/)


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